Work Text:
Whispers of the Fan
Lan Xichen x Nie Huaisang
One: Departure
The morning mist clung to Cloud Recesses like a shroud, obscuring the elegant pavilions in veils of white. Lan Xichen stood at the edge of the precipice overlooking the valley, his white robes stirring in the predawn breeze. Behind him, the sect that had been his entire life slumbered in disciplined silence. Before him lay the unknown—terrifying and strangely liberating in equal measure.
Three months had passed since he'd emerged from seclusion. Three months of well-meaning disciples bowing too deeply, elders speaking in hushed tones when he passed, and the suffocating weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders like a physical thing. The Hanshi, once his sanctuary, had become a cage of memories—Jin Guangyao's laughter echoing in corners, Nie Mingjue's steadfast presence a phantom ache in his chest.
"Xichen." Lan Qiren's voice cut through the morning quiet like a blade. His uncle approached with measured steps, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved from granite. "We must speak."
Lan Xichen didn't turn. "Uncle."
"The council convenes this afternoon. They expect your attendance. They expect..." Lan Qiren paused, his voice hardening. "They expect you to formally reclaim your position as Sect Leader. This... this hesitation has gone on long enough."
"I will not be attending the council." Lan Xichen's voice remained steady, though his hands tightened imperceptibly on the edge of his sleeve. "I have made my decision clear."
"Clear?" The word cracked like thunder. Lan Qiren moved to stand beside him, his weathered face flushed with barely contained fury. "You speak of clarity while abandoning duty? Your brother gallivants across the countryside with that man, shirking every responsibility, and now you—you, who were always the dutiful one—would do the same?"
"Wangji has found happiness. I do not begrudge him that."
"Happiness!" Lan Qiren's mustache quivered. "Happiness is a luxury afforded after duty is fulfilled. The Lan sect is not some toy to be cast aside when it becomes inconvenient. After all I have taught you, after all we have sacrificed to rebuild—"
"Uncle." Lan Xichen finally turned, and something in his eyes made Lan Qiren fall silent. They were distant, those eyes, like looking at a landscape painting rather than a living person. "I am grateful for everything you have given me. But I cannot... I cannot carry this anymore. Find another. There are capable disciples. Lan Jingyi shows promise—"
"Jingyi is barely twenty! You would burden a child with leading an entire sect?"
"Then an elder. Anyone but me." Lan Xichen's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Please, Uncle. I am asking you to understand."
But understanding was not forthcoming. In the days that followed, the pressure mounted with suffocating intensity. Elders cornered him after meditation sessions, their concerned expressions barely masking their desperation. Disciples left formal petitions outside the Hanshi, sealed with wax and weighted with expectation. Even meals became ordeals, with Lan Qiren's disapproving silence more damning than any words.
During one particularly strained dinner, his uncle set down his chopsticks with deliberate precision. "I am ashamed," he said quietly, each word a carefully aimed arrow. "I raised you to understand responsibility, to honor the sacrifices of those who came before. Your father's weakness nearly destroyed this sect. I will not watch his son repeat his mistakes."
Lan Xichen's hand trembled, rice bowl nearly slipping from his fingers. The comparison to his father—the man who had abandoned duty for love, who had been confined until death—struck deeper than any blade. He set down his own chopsticks and rose without a word, leaving his meal unfinished, aware that this too would be marked as a transgression.
That night, he couldn't sleep. He sat in the Hanshi playing his guqin, fingers moving across the strings in melancholy patterns. The music that emerged was discordant, unfinished—much like himself. When had he last felt whole? Before Jin Guangyao's deception? Before Nie Mingjue's death? Or had there always been this hollow space inside him, carefully papered over with duty and propriety?
Dawn found him packing. His movements were methodical, almost meditative. The guqin in its case. A few changes of robes. Essential talismans. A jade pendant that had been Nie Mingjue's gift, years ago, before everything shattered. He left a note—brief, apologetic, inadequate—on his desk.
The eastern gate guards barely had time to register his passage before he was airborne, Shuoyue carrying him north on currents of spiritual energy. He didn't look back. Looking back would mean seeing the disappointment etched into Cloud Recesses' very stones, and he couldn't bear that. Not now.
Two: Arrival
The Unclean Realm rose from the Qinghe plains like a defiant fist raised toward heaven. Where Cloud Recesses flowed with elegant curves and subtle beauty, the Nie sect fortress was all sharp angles and brutal functionality. Yet there was something honest about it—it made no pretense of being anything other than what it was. A stronghold. A statement of strength.
Lan Xichen landed at the gates more from exhaustion than intention. He'd been flying for hours, letting the wind carry him where it would, and only now realized where his unconscious mind had guided him. Of all places, why here? The realm that had once housed Nie Mingjue's booming laughter and iron-clad principles, now ruled by...
"Zewu-Jun?" The gate guard's eyes widened in recognition. "Sect Leader Nie should be informed immediately. Please, honored guest, come inside."
Before Lan Xichen could protest—could he protest? Where else would he go?—he was being ushered through courtyards that smelled of weapon oil and training sweat. Disciples paused in their saber drills to stare. He felt exposed, his dust-stained robes and travel-worn appearance a far cry from the composed Sect Leader Lan they might have expected.
He was shown to a small courtyard garden where peonies bloomed in defiance of the season—carefully cultivated, requiring attention and delicate care in this harsh northern climate. It was so unlike the rest of the fortress that Lan Xichen found himself genuinely curious about who had ordered their planting.
"Zewu-Jun!" The voice was bright, carrying a note of genuine surprise. "What an absolutely unexpected pleasure!"
Nie Huaisang emerged from a covered walkway, his trademark fan already unfurled and fluttering before his face. He wore robes of subtle dove gray embroidered with sparrows in flight—expensive but understated, unlike the bold Nie colors. His hair was dressed simply, with only a few ornamental pins. But it was his eyes that caught Lan Xichen's attention—sharp and assessing behind the fan's gentle movements, before quickly softening into welcoming warmth.
"Sect Leader Nie." Lan Xichen bowed, suddenly aware of how he must appear—disheveled, uninvited, probably looking half-mad for arriving without warning. "I apologize for the intrusion. I was... traveling, and found myself nearby. I should not have presumed—"
"Presumed? Nonsense!" Nie Huaisang waved his fan dismissively, gesturing toward a stone table where servants were already laying out tea service. "Please, sit! You look exhausted. When did you last eat? Sleep? Tea first, then we can discuss whatever brings Gusu Lan's esteemed Zewu-Jun to our humble fortress."
Humble was hardly the word, but Lan Xichen found himself settling onto the stone bench, grateful for the solid surface beneath him. The tea was jasmine—his favorite, though he'd never mentioned this to Nie Huaisang. Had the younger man simply remembered from years ago? Or was it coincidence?
"You've changed the gardens," Lan Xichen observed, accepting the cup with both hands. The warmth seeped into his palms, grounding him.
"Ah, you noticed!" Nie Huaisang's smile gained genuine warmth. "Da-ge always maintained that the Unclean Realm should be about strength and discipline. Nothing frivolous. But I thought... well, even warriors need beauty, don't they? Something to remind us what we're protecting." His voice grew softer. "And peonies were Mother's favorite."
They sipped tea in companionable silence. Nie Huaisang chatted about inconsequential things—a recent night hunt where young Nie disciples had mistaken a cow for a demon and caused chaos in a farming village, a new painting he'd acquired that depicted the Yunmeng lotus lakes with such skill that one could almost smell the summer rain. His manner was light, almost frivolous, but his eyes kept returning to Lan Xichen's face, reading the exhaustion there, the shadows beneath his eyes.
"You know," Nie Huaisang said eventually, setting down his cup, "when I heard you'd emerged from seclusion, I thought perhaps you'd visit. We are, after all, old friends." The word 'friends' carried weight, tinged with history—sworn brotherhood ceremonies, cultivation conferences, the complicated web of relationships that had defined their youth.
"I did not plan this visit," Lan Xichen admitted. "I simply... flew. And found myself here."
"The best visits are often unplanned." Nie Huaisang's fan paused. "Xichen-ge—may I still call you that? You look like someone who's fled something rather than traveled toward something. Am I wrong?"
The directness startled Lan Xichen. The Nie Huaisang he remembered had been scattered, easily frightened, hiding behind incompetence. But the man before him now wielded perception like a blade, cutting straight to the heart of matters while maintaining his gentle demeanor.
"You're not wrong," Lan Xichen said quietly.
"Then stay." Simple words, but Nie Huaisang's voice carried genuine warmth. "Stay as long as you need. The Unclean Realm has more rooms than disciples to fill them. Wander where you will, eat what you like—though I warn you, our cooks favor rich foods that might shock your Lan palate. No obligations, no expectations. Just... rest."
Something in Lan Xichen's chest loosened, a knot he hadn't realized was there. "You're very kind, Huaisang."
"Kind?" Nie Huaisang laughed, but it held an edge of something darker. "I'm selfish, actually. I have so few people I can truly talk to these days. Everyone here sees Sect Leader Nie, not... well. It would be nice to simply be Huaisang for a while. With someone who knew me before."
Before everything changed. Before Jin Guangyao's schemes and Nie Mingjue's death and the bloody restructuring of the cultivation world. Before they'd all become different people wearing the faces of who they used to be.
"Then I accept your hospitality," Lan Xichen said. "Gratefully."
Nie Huaisang's smile reached his eyes this time, crinkling the corners. "Wonderful! Let me show you to your rooms. We've restored the eastern wing—it gets excellent morning light, and the view of the mountains is quite lovely. Perfect for meditation. Or brooding. Whichever you prefer."
Three: Settling In
The rooms Nie Huaisang provided were indeed lovely—spacious and airy, with paper screens that could be opened to a small private garden. Someone had already unpacked Lan Xichen's minimal belongings, his guqin placed carefully on a stand near the window. Fresh robes—white, in Lan style but with subtle gray embroidery—were laid out on the bed.
"I took the liberty," Nie Huaisang said from the doorway, noting Lan Xichen's gaze on the robes. "Your travel clothes looked rather worn. These should fit. If the embroidery offends Lan sensibilities, I can have them changed—"
"They're beautiful," Lan Xichen interrupted softly, running his fingers over the delicate stitching. Storm clouds and cranes, symbols of endurance and grace. "Thank you."
That first night, Lan Xichen dreamed of Jin Guangyao's smile, beautiful and false, and woke with tears on his face. He sat in meditation until dawn, trying to empty his mind of the guilt and grief that swirled there like silted water. When morning came, he found himself uncertain—what did one do with a day that held no obligations?
A soft knock at his door. A servant with breakfast—congee with preserved vegetables, steamed buns, and tea. Simple fare, carefully prepared. And a note in Nie Huaisang's elegant calligraphy: No rush. Wander when you're ready. I'll be in the eastern pavilion if you'd like company.
Lan Xichen ate slowly, savoring each bite. When had he last noticed the taste of his food? At Cloud Recesses, meals had become mere fuel, consumed during study sessions or gulped between obligations. Here, with nothing demanding his attention, the simple flavors of salt and grain and tea leaves seemed almost profound.
He found Nie Huaisang in the eastern pavilion as promised, surrounded by scrolls and paintings. The Nie Sect Leader had paint on his sleeve—a streak of vermillion that he seemed unaware of as he frowned at a half-finished landscape.
"Ah, Xichen-ge!" Nie Huaisang looked up with a smile. "You're up. Come, tell me—does this mountain look more like a mountain or like a pile of rocks? I can never tell with landscapes."
Lan Xichen studied the painting. It was actually quite skillful, the brushstrokes confident despite Nie Huaisang's self-deprecating words. "It looks like a mountain viewed through morning mist. The perspective is well-executed."
"You're too kind." But Nie Huaisang looked pleased. "Are you hungry? Oh, you've eaten. Good. Would you like to walk? The training yards are occupied now, but there's a path along the northern wall that offers excellent views. Unless you'd prefer solitude? I don't mean to impose—"
"A walk would be pleasant," Lan Xichen found himself saying.
They walked in comfortable silence at first, Nie Huaisang occasionally pointing out features of the fortress—repairs made after the wars, new buildings constructed, changes implemented since he'd taken leadership. His tone was casual, but Lan Xichen noted the careful thought behind each modification. The wider infirmary wings. The expanded library. The memorial hall for those lost in the conflicts.
"Da-ge believed in strength above all," Nie Huaisang said as they paused at the memorial hall entrance. "But strength alone couldn't prevent what happened. So I've tried to add... balance. Wisdom. Preparation." His voice dropped. "Though I wonder sometimes if I've simply become paranoid."
"Not paranoid," Lan Xichen said quietly. "Cautious. There's a difference."
They didn't enter the memorial hall—by unspoken agreement, some wounds were too fresh—but continued their walk. The northern path did indeed offer stunning views of the Qinghe mountains, their peaks still snow-capped despite the season.
"Do you regret it?" Lan Xichen asked suddenly. "Everything you did. Everything it cost."
Nie Huaisang was quiet for a long moment, his fan still for once. "Every day," he finally said. "And not at all. Jin Guangyao needed to fall. The cultivation world needed to see what he'd done. But the methods I used, the lies I told, the people I manipulated..." He laughed bitterly. "I became exactly what I was fighting against. A schemer. A manipulator. Da-ge would be ashamed."
"He would be proud you avenged him."
"Would he? Or would he lecture me about honor and straightforward action?" Nie Huaisang's smile was sad. "I suppose I'll never know. Xichen-ge... may I ask you something personal?"
Lan Xichen nodded.
"Do you hate me? For my part in it all? I know you cared for Jin Guangyao deeply. What I revealed, what I orchestrated—it destroyed that. I stole that from you."
The question hung between them like morning mist. Lan Xichen considered it carefully, examining his own heart the way one might examine a wound to see if it had healed cleanly.
"I was angry," he admitted. "When the truth came out, when I realized the extent of both the deception and your counter-schemes, I felt... betrayed. By him. By you. By my own blindness. But hate?" He shook his head slowly. "No. You showed me a truth I needed to see, even if seeing it nearly broke me. That's not something to hate someone for. It's something to... eventually, perhaps... be grateful for."
Nie Huaisang's eyes glistened, but he blinked rapidly, turning away to study the mountains. "You're far more forgiving than I deserve."
"We've all done things we regret in the name of what we thought was right," Lan Xichen said softly. "Perhaps forgiveness is simply acknowledging that truth."
They walked back in silence, but it was a warmer silence than before, as if something unspoken had been acknowledged and set aside.
Four: Growing Closer
Days slipped into weeks with surprising ease. Lan Xichen fell into a gentle rhythm—mornings spent in meditation or playing his guqin, afternoons wandering the fortress or reading in Nie Huaisang's surprisingly extensive library, evenings shared over meals with his host.
The meals were a revelation. Unlike Cloud Recesses' bland, healthful cuisine, Nie cooks prepared robust, flavorful dishes—braised pork belly, spiced noodles, dumplings filled with rich meat and vegetables. Nie Huaisang insisted Lan Xichen try everything, laughing at his initial hesitation.
"It won't poison you, I promise! Here, this is Qinghe's specialty—slow-cooked lamb with cumin and peppers. Just a small bite?"
Lan Xichen tried it, and couldn't suppress his expression of surprise. The flavors were bold, almost overwhelming, but... good? "It's quite different from what I'm accustomed to."
"Different isn't bad," Nie Huaisang said gently. "Just different. You don't have to finish it if you don't like it. But I thought perhaps... sometimes trying new things can remind us that change isn't always painful. Sometimes it's just... interesting."
There was wisdom in that, Lan Xichen realized. He'd spent so long viewing change as catastrophe—the loss of his sworn brothers, the fracturing of his sect's stability, his own mental collapse. But here, change was a meal, a new flavor, something that could be approached with curiosity rather than fear.
They began spending more time together. Nie Huaisang would join Lan Xichen for morning meditation, sitting with surprisingly good posture despite his usual affected complaints about discipline being tedious. Lan Xichen, in turn, allowed himself to be drawn into Nie Huaisang's world of art and aesthetics—examining paintings, discussing calligraphy techniques, even attempting to paint himself.
"You're too controlled," Nie Huaisang observed one afternoon, watching Lan Xichen try to recreate a simple bird. "See how you measure each stroke? Art isn't mathematics. Let it flow. Feel what the brush wants to do."
"The brush wants to create an accurate representation—"
"The brush wants to dance!" Nie Huaisang laughed, reaching out to adjust Lan Xichen's grip. His fingers were warm against Lan Xichen's hand, the touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Like this. Lighter. Don't think so much about what should be. Just... be."
Their hands moved together, and the bird that emerged was looser, freer, somehow more alive despite its technical imperfection. Lan Xichen stared at it, something stirring in his chest—a feeling he couldn't quite name.
One evening, about three weeks into his stay, letters arrived from Cloud Recesses. Lan Xichen recognized his uncle's handwriting on the first scroll, the sharp, angry strokes visible even through the sealed paper. He held it for a long moment, then set it aside unopened.
"Bad news?" Nie Huaisang asked quietly. They were in his private study, sharing wine—mild white wine that barely deserved the name, in deference to Lan Xichen's low tolerance, but wine nonetheless.
"From my uncle. I presume it contains his thoughts on my departure."
"You haven't read it?"
"I know what it says." Lan Xichen's voice was flat. "That I'm shirking duty. That I'm disappointing the sect. That I'm becoming like my father—weak, selfish, prioritizing personal feelings over responsibility." He took a careful sip of wine. "Reading it won't change the content, only make the guilt sharper."
Nie Huaisang set down his own cup, leaning forward. "Xichen-ge, may I share something? When Da-ge died, everyone expected me to be like him. Strong, straightforward, a warrior first and leader second. But I'm not him. I never was. And trying to be him nearly destroyed me." His voice dropped. "What saved me was accepting that being different wasn't being lesser. That my strengths, even if they weren't his strengths, were still valuable."
"Your uncle's disappointment comes from love, I'm sure. But his expectations... they're shaped by who he needs you to be, not who you are. And Xichen-ge—" Nie Huaisang reached out, his hand hovering near Lan Xichen's before gently settling over it. "You are allowed to be who you are. Even if that person isn't who others expected."
The touch sent unexpected warmth through Lan Xichen's arm. He looked down at their hands—Nie Huaisang's slender and paint-stained, his own pale and calloused from strings. Different, but somehow fitting together naturally.
"When did you become so wise?" Lan Xichen asked softly.
"Probably around the time I orchestrated the downfall of the Chief Cultivator," Nie Huaisang said with dark humor. "Scheming requires understanding people. Understanding yourself comes with the territory." He squeezed Lan Xichen's hand gently before withdrawing. "But wisdom is cold comfort. Wine is warmer. Shall I pour you another cup?"
That night, Lan Xichen didn't dream of Jin Guangyao's false smile. Instead, he dreamed of hands touching his, of warmth spreading through cold places, of a fan fluttering like bird wings. He woke up feeling something he hadn't felt in years—anticipation for the day ahead.
Five: Unspoken Feelings
The shift happened gradually, like seasons changing. Casual touches became more frequent—Nie Huaisang adjusting Lan Xichen's brush grip during painting, Lan Xichen steadying Nie Huaisang when he stumbled on a garden path. Their conversations deepened, moving beyond surface pleasantries into territory both dangerous and exhilarating.
Late one night, sharing wine in Nie Huaisang's study while rain drummed against the roof, Lan Xichen found himself speaking truths he'd never voiced aloud.
"I knew," he said quietly, staring into his cup. "Some part of me knew what Jin Guangyao was. I saw the inconsistencies, the small cruelties masked as necessity. But I chose not to look closer. Because looking meant acknowledging that I'd misjudged him completely. That my friendship, my trust, my—" He stopped, but the word hung unspoken between them. Love.
"That your love was misplaced," Nie Huaisang finished gently. "Xichen-ge, we all saw what we wanted to see. He was very good at presenting exactly what each person needed. For you, he was the brilliant, misunderstood soul who needed your faith. For me, he was the helpful sworn brother to my dage. For Da-ge..." His voice caught. "For Da-ge, he was the irritation that could be tolerated. Until he couldn't be."
"Do you think it's possible to love someone and not truly know them?" Lan Xichen asked.
"I think it's possible to love the idea of someone," Nie Huaisang said carefully. "To love the person they could be, or the person they pretend to be. But real love, Xichen-ge... real love requires seeing someone fully. Their darkness and light. And choosing them anyway."
"Have you ever experienced that? Real love?"
Nie Huaisang was quiet for so long that Lan Xichen thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "I'm beginning to think I might be."
Their eyes met across the table, and something electric passed between them. Lan Xichen's breath caught. Nie Huaisang's fan lay forgotten on the desk, leaving his face unguarded, vulnerable. In his eyes, Lan Xichen saw desire mixed with fear—the same emotions currently churning in his own chest.
"Huaisang—" he began, but didn't know how to finish.
"It's late," Nie Huaisang said quickly, breaking the moment. "We should both rest. Forgive me, I've kept you up with my rambling."
But as Lan Xichen rose to leave, Nie Huaisang caught his sleeve. "Xichen-ge. Thank you. For being here. For talking with me. I haven't felt this... comfortable with anyone in years."
"Nor I," Lan Xichen admitted.
They stood close, neither moving. Lan Xichen could smell Nie Huaisang's subtle incense—sandalwood and something sweeter. Could see the rapid pulse at his throat. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, to test if Nie Huaisang's lips were as soft as they looked.
But he didn't. Not yet. Fear held him back—fear of misreading the situation, of ruining the fragile peace he'd found here, of opening himself to hurt again so soon after Jin Guangyao's betrayal had nearly destroyed him.
Instead, he squeezed Nie Huaisang's hand gently and bid him good night.
The following days were marked by careful awareness. Every interaction carried new weight. When Nie Huaisang laughed at something Lan Xichen said, the sound made his heart skip. When their fingers brushed passing a tea cup, electricity sparked. They began seeking each other out more deliberately—morning walks becoming routine, evening meals always shared, conversations stretching long into the night.
One afternoon, Lan Xichen found Nie Huaisang in the memorial hall, standing before his brother's memorial tablet. His shoulders were shaking slightly, though he made no sound. Lan Xichen approached quietly, standing beside him in silent support.
"I talk to him sometimes," Nie Huaisang said finally, his voice rough. "Tell him about sect matters. Ask his advice, even though I know he can't answer. Stupid, isn't it?"
"Not stupid. Human."
"I miss him so much it still hurts. Even after all this time." Nie Huaisang's voice broke. "And I feel guilty for being happy. For laughing, for enjoying things. Like I'm betraying his memory by not mourning forever."
Lan Xichen understood that guilt intimately. "He wouldn't want you to stop living."
"Wouldn't he? Da-ge took everything seriously. Duty, honor, responsibility. He'd probably lecture me about indulging in frivolous pursuits instead of proper training."
"Perhaps. But he loved you. And love means wanting happiness for the beloved, even if that happiness looks different from what we'd choose for ourselves."
Nie Huaisang turned to him, tears tracking down his face. Without thinking, Lan Xichen reached out and wiped them away with his thumb. The gesture was intimate, crossing an unspoken boundary. Nie Huaisang's breath hitched, his eyes widening.
"Xichen-ge..."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"No." Nie Huaisang caught his hand, pressing it against his cheek. "Don't apologize. I... I wanted you to."
They stood frozen in that moment, the air between them thick with possibility. Outside, disciples went about their training, the world continuing as it always did. But here, in this space between grief and hope, something new was taking shape.
"I'm afraid," Lan Xichen admitted quietly. "Of feeling too much. Of trusting again and being wrong. Of—"
"Of being hurt again," Nie Huaisang finished. "I know. I'm afraid too. But Xichen-ge... what if we're not wrong? What if this—" He gestured between them, unable to name it yet. "What if this is something real?"
"How do we know?"
Nie Huaisang's smile was small but genuine. "We don't. That's terrifying, isn't it? But perhaps that's what makes it real. The risk. The choice to trust despite the fear."
Lan Xichen thought of Jin Guangyao—the false smiles, the careful manipulations, the love that had been built on lies. Then he looked at Nie Huaisang—imperfect, honest in his fears, showing his tears rather than hiding them. So different. So real.
"I would like to try," he said softly. "If you would."
Nie Huaisang's face lit up, hope and joy mixed with lingering uncertainty. "I would like that very much."
They didn't kiss then—it felt too fast, too soon. But they held hands walking back through the fortress, fingers intertwined, and that felt like its own kind of promise.
Six: Into the Light
The next week unfolded like a carefully painted scroll revealing itself inch by inch. They courted each other in small ways—Nie Huaisang leaving fresh flowers in Lan Xichen's room each morning, Lan Xichen playing soft melodies on his guqin while Nie Huaisang painted. Their conversations grew more personal, more vulnerable.
"What do you want?" Nie Huaisang asked one evening as they sat in the peony garden, twilight painting everything in shades of blue and gold. "Not what your uncle wants, or what the sect expects. What does Lan Xichen want for himself?"
It was a question no one had asked him in years. Lan Xichen considered it carefully, watching the last light fade from the sky. "Peace," he finally said. "Not the absence of conflict, but... internal quiet. The ability to look at myself without flinching. To build something new rather than trying to repair what's broken beyond mending."
"And do you think you could find that? Here, perhaps?"
The suggestion hung between them, heavy with implication. Here meant not just the Unclean Realm, but with Nie Huaisang. A future built together rather than separate.
"I think I might be finding it already," Lan Xichen admitted.
Nie Huaisang's hand found his in the darkness. "Then stay. Not as a guest. Stay as... as someone who belongs here. With me."
"Huaisang, I cannot ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering. Xichen-ge, I know this is fast. I know we're both carrying wounds that haven't fully healed. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel like myself again. Not Sect Leader Nie, not the scheming younger brother, just... Huaisang. And I think—I hope—you might feel something similar."
Lan Xichen did. The weight of Zewu-Jun's reputation, of failed sworn brotherhood, of sect expectations—all of it felt lighter here. With Nie Huaisang, he could simply be Xichen.
"I do," he said quietly. "Feel the same, I mean."
"Then we'll take it slowly. No grand declarations, no rushing. Just... seeing where this leads. Together."
They sat in comfortable silence as stars emerged overhead. Lan Xichen felt Nie Huaisang's thumb tracing patterns on the back of his hand—idle, soothing. When had touch become so important? He'd gone years in seclusion without human contact, hadn't realized how starved he'd been for gentle connection.
"Will you play for me?" Nie Huaisang asked softly. "Your guqin. I've heard it from a distance, but never had a private performance."
So Lan Xichen retrieved his guqin and played there in the garden, with only Nie Huaisang as his audience. He chose pieces that spoke of new beginnings, of spring after long winter, of hope tentatively taking root. Nie Huaisang listened with closed eyes, a small smile playing at his lips.
When the last notes faded, Nie Huaisang opened his eyes and said simply, "Beautiful. You're beautiful, Xichen-ge."
The compliment wasn't about his appearance—it was deeper, seeing through to something essential. Lan Xichen felt his face warm, grateful for the darkness that hid his flush.
"Come here," Nie Huaisang said softly, patting the bench beside him.
Lan Xichen set aside his guqin and moved closer. They sat shoulder to shoulder now, warmth seeping between them despite the cool evening air. Nie Huaisang leaned his head against Lan Xichen's shoulder, a gesture of trust and affection.
"Is this alright?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Lan Xichen breathed. "More than alright."
They stayed that way until the moon rose high, neither wanting to break the moment. When they finally retired to their separate rooms, Lan Xichen found himself reluctant to say goodnight, lingering at Nie Huaisang's door.
"Tomorrow?" Nie Huaisang asked, hope in his voice.
"Tomorrow," Lan Xichen confirmed. "And the day after. And—"
He didn't finish because Nie Huaisang rose on his toes and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek, then retreated quickly into his room, looking both delighted and embarrassed by his own boldness.
Lan Xichen stood in the corridor, hand raised to his cheek where he could still feel the warmth of Nie Huaisang's lips. Something in his chest unfurled—not the desperate, complicated love he'd felt for Jin Guangyao, but something steadier. Quieter. Real.
Epilogue: Home
Three months after his arrival, Lan Xichen sat in the Nie sect leader's personal study, reading through correspondence while Nie Huaisang worked on sect accounts at his desk. It had become their routine—working in companionable silence, occasionally sharing observations or asking opinions. The domesticity of it still surprised Lan Xichen sometimes, how naturally they'd fallen into this rhythm.
Another letter had arrived from Cloud Recesses that morning. Lan Xichen had finally opened one of his uncle's missives the week before—it had been as condemning as expected, calling his behavior "a disgrace to the Lan name" and demanding his immediate return. He'd written back, carefully and respectfully, reiterating his decision. The reply had been silence, which somehow hurt more than anger.
"You're frowning," Nie Huaisang observed, not looking up from his ledgers. "The Cloud Recesses letter?"
"How did you—"
"You only get that particular crease between your eyebrows when thinking about your uncle." Nie Huaisang set down his brush, giving Lan Xichen his full attention. "What does it say this time?"
"Nothing. That's the problem. He's stopped writing."
Nie Huaisang rose and crossed to where Lan Xichen sat, perching on the edge of the desk. "The silent treatment. A classic technique. Make you feel guilty enough to return on your own."
"It's working," Lan Xichen admitted quietly.
"Is it? Are you considering going back?"
Lan Xichen looked up at him—at this man who'd become so important, so quickly. Nie Huaisang's hair was slightly mussed from running his hands through it while calculating numbers, a habit he had when concentrating. There was an ink smudge on his jaw. He looked soft and real and present in a way that made Lan Xichen's heart ache with affection.
"No," he said firmly. "I'm not going back. Not to stay. But the guilt..." He shook his head. "It doesn't simply disappear."
"Nor should it," Nie Huaisang said gently. "Guilt means you care about the people you've disappointed. That's not weakness, Xichen-ge. It's proof you're still human." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Lan Xichen's ear. "But caring doesn't mean sacrificing yourself on the altar of others' expectations."
The touch was casual now, easy—they'd grown comfortable with these small intimacies over the past weeks. But they hadn't gone beyond gentle kisses, both proceeding cautiously, aware of their respective wounds.
"When did you become my voice of reason?" Lan Xichen asked with a small smile.
"Since you started listening. It's very encouraging." Nie Huaisang's expression turned more serious. "Xichen-ge, I've been thinking. Perhaps it's time to make your presence here... official. Not as a guest, but as—" He hesitated, then pushed forward. "As my partner. In sect matters and otherwise."
Lan Xichen's breath caught. "Huaisang, that's—are you certain? The political implications alone—"
"Let me worry about politics. I'm rather good at them." His smile was wry. "What I'm asking is whether you want this. Want us. Not as a temporary escape, but as something lasting."
Did he? Lan Xichen examined his heart carefully, as he'd been taught to do in meditation. He found fear there, yes—the old wounds hadn't fully healed. But beneath the fear was something stronger: certainty. Being here with Nie Huaisang felt right in a way nothing had in years.
"I want this," he said clearly. "I want us."
Nie Huaisang's face lit with joy, and he cupped Lan Xichen's face in both hands. "Then let me kiss you properly. We've been dancing around it for weeks."
"We have," Lan Xichen agreed, his own hands coming up to rest on Nie Huaisang's waist.
This kiss was different from the brief, tentative ones they'd shared before. It was deeper, more certain—a declaration rather than a question. Nie Huaisang's lips were soft, moving against his with gentle insistence. Lan Xichen pulled him closer, feeling the warmth of his body, the rapid beat of his heart.
When they finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Nie Huaisang laughed softly. "I've wanted to do that since the first week you arrived. You looked so lost in my garden, and I thought—I want to be the person who helps him find his way again."
"You have," Lan Xichen said, resting his forehead against Nie Huaisang's. "You've given me space to heal, reason to hope, and—" He smiled. "Excellent kissing."
"Only excellent? I'll have to work on that." Nie Huaisang kissed him again, playful this time, nipping gently at his lower lip.
They spent the rest of the afternoon not working, but talking about the future—how to announce Lan Xichen's permanent residence, what role he might take in sect matters, how to handle the inevitable political fallout. Nie Huaisang was practical, already strategizing, but kept getting distracted by Lan Xichen's presence close beside him.
That evening, they walked through the fortress grounds together. Disciples had grown accustomed to seeing them as a pair, no longer staring when Zewu-Jun appeared at Sect Leader Nie's side. Some even bowed to them both, acknowledging an unspoken but recognized partnership.
"Do you miss it?" Nie Huaisang asked as they paused at a overlook, the Qinghe plains spreading before them in the twilight. "Leading a sect. Being at the center of cultivation politics."
Lan Xichen considered. "I miss the parts that mattered—teaching young disciples, maintaining the library, music and meditation. But the politics, the constant judgment, the weight of impossible expectations?" He shook his head. "No. I don't miss that."
"You could still teach here, you know. Our disciples would benefit from Gusu Lan techniques. And we have a library that could use organizing—I've been somewhat negligent on that front."
"Somewhat?" Lan Xichen raised an eyebrow, amused. "Your 'library' is three rooms of scrolls piled haphazardly with no cataloging system."
"See? You're needed already." Nie Huaisang grinned. "Besides, you can play your guqin whenever you like. I'll even commission a proper pavilion for it—overlooking the garden, perfect acoustics."
"You're bribing me to stay with architecture."
"Is it working?"
Lan Xichen pulled him close, kissing the top of his head. "I'm already staying. But I appreciate the bribery nonetheless."
They stood together watching the stars emerge, and Lan Xichen felt something he hadn't experienced in years: contentment. Not the rigid perfection that Cloud Recesses demanded, but something warmer, more human. The contentment of being seen, fully and completely, and loved not despite his flaws but including them.
A month later, word reached them that Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian were passing through Qinghe. Lan Xichen had been both anticipating and dreading this moment—his brother's opinion mattered more than he cared to admit.
They arrived on a clear morning, Lan Wangji as composed as ever, Wei Wuxian chattering cheerfully beside him. When they were shown to the receiving hall, Wei Wuxian took one look at Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang standing together and broke into a knowing grin.
"Well, well! Zewu-Jun, you're looking significantly less miserable than last I heard. Qinghe air must agree with you."
"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji said quietly, a gentle reprimand, but his golden eyes were assessing his brother carefully.
Lan Xichen met his gaze steadily. "Wangji. It's good to see you."
They went through the formalities—tea served, pleasantries exchanged. But eventually Wei Wuxian's patience ran out. "So are we going to pretend we don't all see what's happening here, or can we acknowledge that you two are obviously together?"
Nie Huaisang's fan fluttered. "Wei-xiong has always been remarkably direct."
"Someone has to be! Look at them, Lan Zhan—they're sitting close enough to be in each other's robes, and Zewu-Jun's been smiling this whole time. Actual smiling, not that polite sect leader expression."
Lan Wangji's lips twitched—almost imperceptibly, but there. "Brother. Are you well?"
The simple question carried layers of meaning. Lan Xichen knew his brother was asking about more than physical health—he was asking if this was truly what Xichen wanted, if he was healing or simply hiding.
"I am," Lan Xichen said quietly. "Better than I've been in years. Huaisang has... he's helped me remember who I am beyond my position. Beyond the mistakes I've made."
"Good." Lan Wangji's approval was subtle but clear. Then, even more quietly: "Uncle is very angry."
"I know."
"He may not forgive this."
"I know that too." Lan Xichen glanced at Nie Huaisang, who gave him an encouraging nod. "But I cannot live my life for his approval anymore. I tried that, Wangji. It nearly destroyed me."
Wei Wuxian leaned forward, his expression unusually serious. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. Life's too short to spend it being someone else's idea of perfect." He grinned suddenly. "Also, if Uncle Lan gives you too much trouble, let me know. I've gotten very good at being a terrible influence—I can teach Sect Leader Nie some tricks."
"I think Sect Leader Nie is quite capable of mischief on his own," Lan Xichen said dryly, earning a laugh from Nie Huaisang.
They spent the afternoon together, the conversation gradually relaxing into something almost like the old days—before betrayals and deaths and the world falling apart. Wei Wuxian told outrageous stories about their travels, Nie Huaisang shared gossip from various sects, and Lan Xichen found himself laughing more freely than he had in months.
Before they left, Lan Wangji pulled his brother aside. "You seem at peace," he observed quietly.
"I'm getting there," Lan Xichen said. "Slowly."
"That is enough. Peace is not a destination but a practice." Lan Wangji paused, then added with characteristic brevity: "He is good for you. Nie-zongzhu. I approve."
Coming from his taciturn brother, it was a ringing endorsement. Lan Xichen felt emotion tighten his throat. "Thank you, Wangji. That means more than you know."
"Mn. Be happy, xiongzhang. You deserve it."
After they left, Nie Huaisang found Lan Xichen standing in the courtyard, staring at nothing in particular. "Your brother gave his blessing?"
"He did. Though he warned me Uncle remains angry."
"We'll handle it if we must." Nie Huaisang slipped his hand into Lan Xichen's. "Together, yes?"
"Together," Lan Xichen agreed.
As months passed into a year, they built a life neither had expected but both needed. Lan Xichen did indeed organize the library, and began teaching select Nie disciples Gusu Lan musical cultivation techniques. Nie Huaisang commissioned the promised pavilion, and many evenings found them there—Lan Xichen playing while Nie Huaisang painted or simply listened.
They still had difficult days. Lan Xichen sometimes woke from nightmares of Jin Guangyao's betrayal, and Nie Huaisang carried guilt about his own schemes that occasionally overwhelmed him. But they'd learned to navigate these storms together, offering comfort without trying to fix what couldn't be easily mended.
Letters still came from Cloud Recesses occasionally—never from Lan Qiren anymore, but from disciples, from elders, updating him on sect matters. Lan Xichen read them with interest but no longer with guilt. That life had been his, once. But this life—here, with Nie Huaisang, building something new from the ashes of old pain—this was his now.
One evening, nearly a year and half after his arrival, they sat in their pavilion—theirs, because it had become a shared space, like so much else in their lives. Rain pattered on the roof, and Nie Huaisang was nestled against Lan Xichen's side, both of them watching the storm transform the gardens.
"Do you regret it?" Nie Huaisang asked quietly. "Leaving Cloud Recesses. Everything you gave up."
Lan Xichen considered the question seriously, as it deserved. He thought of his uncle's anger, the sect leadership he'd refused, the life of rigid duty he'd abandoned. Then he thought of mornings waking to Nie Huaisang's sleep-soft face, of students eagerly learning from him without the weight of being Sect Leader Lan's nephew, of freedom to simply be.
"No," he said finally, with certainty. "I don't regret it at all. This is home now. You are home."
Nie Huaisang tilted his face up, and Lan Xichen kissed him—deep and slow and full of promise. Outside, the storm raged. But here, in this space they'd carved out together, there was only warmth and peace and the quiet certainty of belonging.
When they finally pulled apart, Nie Huaisang smiled—that real smile he only ever showed to Lan Xichen, unguarded and genuine. "I love you," he said simply. "I don't think I've said it plainly yet, but I do. I love you, Lan Xichen."
"I love you too," Lan Xichen replied, the words easy and true. Not the desperate, complicated love of his past, but something steadier. Something built on truth and acceptance and the daily choice to remain, to build, to grow together.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. But here, sheltered and safe and finally, finally at peace, two souls who'd been lost found their way home—to each other, to acceptance, to a future they'd write together, one gentle day at a time.